


A Blessing of a Curse

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: It’s been a year since the fateful Dia de Muertos when Miguel traveled to the Land of the Dead. Miguel is helping his family get ready... and then sees a familiar sight: transparent, glowing skeletons walking around the streets.It doesn’t make him as happy as you might expect.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	A Blessing of a Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! I am somehow still writing fics like three years after this movie came out??
> 
> So uhh... honestly this is largely just an excuse to have Miguel and Héctor interact post-movie. Also, this takes place in the same 'verse as most of my other fics, including _Neither Can You_ , BUT you don't really need to read those first if you don't want. This is from Miguel's perspective, so you'll just learn stuff along with him if you haven't already read the fic, haha.
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and Pengychan for beta-reading!

_Dia de Muertos_ was going to be different this year.

It wasn't just because a certain someone wouldn't be there—well, especially because she _would_ be there, Miguel assured himself, swallowing down the tightness in his throat—but because... someone else would be there, too. On top of that—and really, _because_ of that—this would be the first _Dia de Muertos_ in many, many years that the Riveras would be celebrating with _music_.

Music, plus a certain ancestor... and... oh, yeah, about a dozen or so other family members that didn't normally visit.

Voices from the kitchen interrupted Miguel's thoughts:

"Okay Mamá, I think we've got enough food for everyone," his papá said with a laugh.

"Absolutely not!" Abuelita retorted. "Your _esposa's_ family is going to leave here _well-fed_! Now help me with the _mole negro_."

" _Ay_ ," Papá said, and Miguel could hear the smile in his voice.

It made him smile, too, but only briefly. Feeling a familiar wave of worry wash over him, Miguel rushed out to the _ofrenda_ room for the fifth time that night, just to assure himself that Papá Héctor's picture was still there, and that Dante hadn't knocked it off, or something. He'd admittedly freaked out earlier when his mamá had taken down the photo to clean a smudge off of it, and had made some lame excuse about worrying she would drop the frame and it would break, like he'd done with the same photo the year prior.

But, sure enough, the photo still sat proudly atop the _ofrenda_ , with Papá Héctor's face lovingly taped back where it belonged, and the photo given a lovely custom frame. Though it was not placed at the _very_ top of the _ofrenda_ this year, Miguel made sure that something worthy of the Rivera name was: a custom-made boot in Mamá Imelda's favorite style, and a miniature guitar decoration made by Miguel himself, the two items carefully propped up, each leaning against the other. He hoped his ancestors would appreciate the touch—maybe he'd ask them about it in a letter later. He also hoped they would appreciate—

"Oh, oh! Look, there's the twins!"

"Manny and Benny!"

"They've gotten so big!"

"That one over there is Carmen, Berto's _esposa_."

Miguel scratched his head—the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place them immediately. He knew what that meant, though, and poked his head through the doorway. "Papá, they're here!"

"Go on and say hi to them, _mijo_. We'll be out soon!"

"Got it!" Miguel stepped out of the room, looking down at his shirt and briefly wondering if he should go ahead and change into his new charro suit. He supposed it could wait until after he met his—

He looked up, and was greeted with the sight of roughly half a dozen skeletons glowing in a transparent orange shade.

_No._

Heart leaping into his throat, Miguel ducked back into the _ofrenda_ room, his back against the wall, and panted as he frantically looked over his left hand. But no bone showed through, and his skin was as solid as ever. But... hadn't he just seen...?!

Shakily Miguel poked his head out the doorway once more. Yes, the skeletons were still there. Their backs were turned, but he immediately recognized the tall twin frames of Óscar and Felipe, and his Tía Victoria, and Tía Rosita, and Papá Julio, and... and...

A small part of Miguel wanted to run up to them immediately, to embrace his Mamá Coco who had been absent for nearly a year, to wrap his Papá Héctor in the biggest hug... but his entire body was trembling. It was like when he'd ride in the back of the pickup truck, but he wasn't shaking from riding around in a car—he was shaking on his own. Once again he checked his hands, his arms, feeling them to assure himself that there really was flesh and muscle there and not stark white bone. But... what if he really _was_ invisible and just couldn't tell yet, like he had been at first, after he'd grabbed the guitar last year? What if the second he tried to touch someone, they would pass through him, and he would turn transparent?

What if he was still...?

Before he realized what he was doing, he found his feet carrying him of their own accord to the kitchen.

" _¡Papá!_ " he cried before he even stepped into the room. To his relief, the response was immediate:

"Miguel?" His papá nearly bumped into him, stepping back when Miguel threw his arms around him (doubly relieved to find that he could even do so). Immediately concerned, his papá stooped slightly, placed a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "What's the matter?"

Immediately he felt pulled down by the weight of shame, and took a step back, holding his wrist. "Sorry, Papá. I-I was just..." What could he say? He couldn't possibly explain the curse—that would require explaining _everything_ that had happened last year, and how could he do that? "I saw... people coming in, a-and I realized... I'm gonna have to play this song for _all of them_! Wh-what if they hate my music?"

Abuelita cut in: "If they do, they'll hear from _me_!" She held up her spoon like a weapon, though it wasn't quite as scary as her _chancla_.

Meanwhile, his papá chuckled, shaking his head. "Miguel, your music is the _reason_ they're here in the first place!" he said, unable to contain his grin. "When your mamá’s family heard about everything, they couldn't wait to come over to see it for themselves."

" _Exactamente_ ," Abuelita said with a decisive nod. "You don't have anything to worry about, _mijo_."

Miguel resisted the urge to wipe at his eyes, opting for what he hoped was a convincing grin instead. " _G-gracias_ ," he managed to stammer.

But to his dismay, his papá frowned, moving his hand from his shoulder to his back. "You're trembling. Are you all right?"

Oh, he _was_ still shaking, wasn't he? He really wished his body would cut it out, but he had no idea how to make it stop. "I-I'm just nervous about the performance." And, suddenly remembering his Papá Héctor's words, he took a step back. "I need to _shake out_ the nerves!" he said, and shook himself in an exaggerated manner.

Laughing, his father clapped him on the back and straightened himself. "That's my boy! Go on, now, you should get into your outfit!"

" _Sí_ , Papá," Miguel said, glad for the excuse to leave. Without waiting for anything else to happen, he hurried off to his room, quickly latching the door behind him. His new outfit was laid out neatly on his bed, and he lifted the jacket, wishing to admire it... but couldn't ignore how badly he was still shaking.

" _¡Basta!_ " he hissed to himself, dropping the suit and wrapping his arms around his body. He wished Dante were here—his spirit guide usually helped soothe his nerves, but the dog had been absent since he'd given him and Pepita some tamales in exchange for delivering a letter. But... why would he even need Dante _right now_? Usually when he got like this, it was when he would wake up from a nightmare, or when he was missing Mamá Coco, or when something happened that reminded him of...

The memory of transparent skeletons immediately came to the forefront of his mind.

... _oh_.

Groaning, Miguel laid his head onto his bed, burying his face into his arms. Stuff like heights and getting dunked underwater had been freaking him out, yeah, and that sucked, but now the sight of his own dead family—the very ones he'd been missing so much this entire year—was making him like _this_?

What was _wrong_ with him?

Sure, his parents had said that it was normal when stuff freaked you out after something bad happened, but this...

He was still shaking.

With a frustrated sigh, Miguel lifted himself up again and got to work changing into his new charro suit. If this was going to freak him out, then he'd just have to ignore them. That would definitely work.

Right?

* * *

This was _not_ working.

His dead family was, of course, all over the place. When he looked one way, he would see the twins marveling over Tío Berto's new shoes. In another direction, Tía Victoria and Tía Rosita were talking about Abuelita's tamales and how many she'd made. When he turned again, he nearly ran smack into his Mamá Imelda, whom he tried desperately to avoid the gaze of. Every time he caught a glimpse of them, he had to fight the urge to check his hands for a hundred-and-thirteenth time, to make sure he really wasn't disappearing or turning into a skeleton. He kept a fistful of _cempasúchil_ in his pocket, just in case, which he _also_ had to constantly resist the urge to check.

Finally it was time for him and his cousins to perform their song, and Miguel had to throw his everything into his music. It was slightly easier to ignore the skeletons wandering around when he was focused more on singing loudly and clearly and getting the chords right as he played. Even so, he found himself wandering about the courtyard as he sang, meeting the loving gazes of his living family as he tried to ignore the presence of the dead.

Dante helped a little, galloping up to him and licking him in the face to show him that he'd come back. Even so, Miguel almost lost his composure entirely when he passed Abuelita, only to find his Mamá Coco, in skeleton form, wrapping her arm around her in a loving embrace. He managed to cover for himself by belting out the next line even louder than he had before, which worked just as well, since he was nearing the end of the song. The joy and excitement of his living family made it easier to ignore the presence of the glowing souls around him, but he couldn't help but be reminded, when his papá and _tío_ lifted him up onto their shoulders, of when Héctor had done a similar action when they'd last performed together.

Finally the song was over, and Miguel found himself panting, clutching his Papá Héctor's guitar far more tightly than he'd meant to. It felt good to sing with all his might—and a song he'd written himself, too!—but he was eager to step away for a while.

But his family wasn't exactly making that easy—several of them were calling for an encore, while his mamá urged them to let him catch his breath first. Miguel looked around the crowd, hoping to find a space he could squeeze through, and quickly pushed himself toward a small gap where a couple relatives he was less familiar with were standing.

"Great job, Miguel!" one of them—a _tía_ or an older _prima_ , he wasn't sure—said as he passed, and he looked up to thank her.

But his gaze was instead immediately pulled to a glowing figure who had followed him out of the crowd, and for a moment, he was frozen.

 _He looks like he's about to cry_ , was all he could think as he looked up into his Papá Héctor's eyes.

And then he realized his mistake.

Héctor, who had indeed looked like he was about to dissolve into happy tears in that moment, suddenly stared into his eyes, a look of shock crossing his face.

Terror immediately gripped his stomach, and Miguel ran.

Fortunately, other than the confused _tía_ , no one had noticed his sudden departure as he fled into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. In a moment of panicked stupidity, he found himself shoving the white guitar under his bed (part of the neck poking out) before following suit, knocking his hat off and hiding with his hands over his head like a little kid scared of a thunderstorm.

But he felt like he could hardly breathe. He gasped for air, his breaths short and sharp. He was shaking. And this was _stupid._

It was so stupid for him to be scared of this. Why was he scared? He'd _missed_ his Papá Héctor. He'd even written that song _for him_ and Mamá Coco. So why was he _scared_ of seeing him again?

But then why was he seeing him in the first place? It didn't make sense. It made no sense. It made no sense, unless he was cursed again, which was why he could see them last time, but he didn't want to be cursed again, that would mean he would have to go _back_ to the Land of the Dead. What if he had to face Señor de la Cruz again? He didn't want to face _him_ again, he didn't want to get thrown into the _cenote_ again, he didn't want to be thrown off a cliff again, he didn't want to fall into water or get trapped and lost away from his family, he didn't want to go through that again, he _didn't want to be cursed—_

A sharp whine from the other side of the door cut through his panic.

" _¿Mijo?_ We're not mad at you. Please, are you in there?"

He realized the voice must have been talking for a while now. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but he kept silent anyway, clasping his hands over his mouth to muffle his panicked breathing.

It was a moment before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, _mi amor_. Maybe Dante led us to the wrong room."

Dante whined again, scratching at the door with his claws.

"Are you _sure_ he saw you?"

" _...Sí_."

The sheer amount of sadness in that single word caught Miguel off-guard. He hadn't even considered how his suddenly running off like that would look to Héctor.

"This is my fault," Héctor continued. "I should have told him—"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Héctor."

There was a long silence from the other side of the door, and Miguel leaned forward, straining to hear.

"He's... probably upset with me." Another pause. "I should go."

"N-no, don't!"

His clapped his hands over his mouth again when he realized he had spoken. There was a soft clatter of bones on the other side of the door—clearly he'd startled them as well.

"...Miguel," Imelda began again, her voice edged with caution. "May we come in?"

Well... no use in staying quiet anymore. " _S-sí,_ Mamá Imelda."

For a moment he expected the door to open, only to be startled when the orange-tinted ghost of his Mamá Imelda phased through the door. She looked confused upon not immediately seeing him, and looked to her side, only to pause. "Héctor, come on."

"...H-he only said you, not me."

Rolling her eyes exaggeratedly, Imelda reached through the door and yanked Héctor into the room. His shoulders were hunched and his hand gripped his wrist behind his back in anxiety, but from the other side of the door, Dante gave a satisfied _ruff_ and trotted away.

Now that his great-great-grandparents were actually in the room, it felt pointless to keep hiding, but at the same time, coming out from hiding would mean he'd have to acknowledge he'd been childish enough to _hide under his bed_ in the first place, so Miguel stayed put.

"Miguel, it's all right," Mamá Imelda said. Her voice was calm, like it had been the very last time he'd heard it, right before he'd been sent back to the Land of the Living, and his Papá Héctor was seizing up in violent flashes— "You can come out now."

Miguel swallowed; his throat hurt, and he turned his head away.

"I'm... sorry I scared you," Héctor said, his voice rougher than Miguel had expected.

"You didn't scare me," Miguel mumbled. He wasn't really sure what gave Héctor that impression in the first place, but then, Miguel _had_ just turned and ran from him.

Hearing his voice, Héctor knelt down next to Miguel's bed, and Imelda followed suit, leaning down in an attempt to see him better. "Is something else the matter, _mijo_?"

Miguel swallowed again, feeling more and more like some dumb kid with every passing moment. Part of him almost didn't want to say what was bothering him, but... unlike his living family, Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor _would_ be the ones to understand, even if it was really stupid. Even so, it was an effort to make himself speak, and his voice cracked: "I don't... want to go back to the Land of the Dead."

"Oh, _mijo._ " Héctor's voice was warm with sympathy. "You won't have to go there again for a long, long time."

The knot in his chest loosened a little at the realization that his great-great-grandparents were not mocking him. The worries, however, kept a tight grip on him. "But... I can s-see you."

"So you can," Mamá Imelda remarked. There was a frown in her voice. "Miguel... did you get yourself cursed again?"

"I-I don't know!" he cried, and growled in frustration when his voice squeaked again. "I didn't do anything! I-I didn't steal, I promise!"

"If he's been cursed, we can just send him back. There's petals everywhere." Héctor pushed himself back into a standing position, and helped Imelda up. Something seemed odd about the way it looked, but Miguel didn't dwell on the thought. "Come out from under there, and let's take a look."

With his great-great-grandparents backing up to give him space, Miguel finally crawled out from beneath the bed. Unable to meet their gaze, he simply stared down at his hat on the floor.

"Let's see your hands," Imelda said, and Miguel obediently held out his left hand, still looking away.

He suddenly felt a strange combination of cold and warmth pass through his hand, and shuddered, pulling it away and looking it over. Nothing seemed out of place. "What happened?" he asked, and finally looked up to see Héctor and Imelda staring down at him in surprise.

" _Oh_ ," Imelda finally said, and reached out to him again. She moved to place a hand on his shoulder, and while Miguel could sense a faint warmth from it, he could not actually feel her touch. When she lowered her hand further, it passed completely through his shoulder, and he shivered from the chill.

"...You can't touch me," he said slowly. It was like when he'd tried to touch a living person last year, except the opposite. Experimentally he reached for his Mamá Imelda's hand, but his passed straight through hers, leaving a similar sensation of warmth and cold.

"Strange." Imelda crossed her arms, frowning as she stared at the floor. "This didn't happen before."

"And everyone else can still see me, too!" Miguel added. "They couldn't last time."

Héctor's face broke into a hesitant smile. "Maybe it's a leftover from last time," he said. "A _good_ leftover from the curse."

Shuddering, Miguel shook his head. "Uh-uh, I'm not taking that chance. H-here!" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few petals, more spilling out onto the floor. "Can you take this?"

For reasons he didn't immediately understand, Héctor seemed hesitant to take the petal, but Imelda stepped in for him. She reached out, carefully, and plucked one of the petals away—while all of them remained in Miguel's hand, a spirit copy of one had appeared in hers. "I suppose it counts as an offering," she remarked, then held it out to Miguel again, her expression growing more serious. "Miguel... I give you my blessing."

Miguel held his breath, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Imelda flicked her wrist and held the petal out again, closer to Miguel. "Miguel, I give you my _blessing_."

They waited.

Nothing.

"Huh." Héctor stared down at the petal. "If you can't give a blessing... there must be no curse."

"S-so..." Miguel fidgeted. "I don't have to... g-go back? And see de la Cruz?"

Héctor stiffened, his gaze going distant, while Mamá Imelda carefully held her hand over Miguel's shoulder. "No, _mijo_. Why would you think you would have to do that?"

"I-I... I dunno." He stepped back, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "I've..." He swallowed—he couldn't tell his parents this, but he could tell _them_. "I-I didn't tell you about it in the letters, 'cuz I didn't want you to worry, but... I've been having nightmares about him for a long time. Since it happened. And wh-when I realized I could see you, a-all I could think was that... I was cursed again, and I'd h-have to go back to the Land of the Dead, and... s-see _him._ "

"You _won't_ ," Héctor said suddenly, causing Miguel to jump; his voice was a lot rougher for some reason. His gaze was out of focus, like he wasn't really looking at anything, or like he was seeing something that wasn't there. His left hand gripped his right wrist tightly, to the point where it was shaking, Miguel thought, but no—his entire frame was shaking. "N-not ever again. You _won't._ "

" _Tranquilo,_ Héctor," Mamá Imelda said, now placing a hand on Héctor's back, while another gripped his right hand. " _Estas bien._ "

Confused, Miguel looked them over again... and then he saw it. Mamá Imelda was not holding Papá Héctor's hand, but a weird contraption attached to his wrist. " _Oh_!" he cried, his own fear momentarily forgotten. "Papá Héctor, what happened to your hand?"

 _That_ seemed to snap Héctor out of... whatever was going on with him, and he wilted, the life (so to speak) seeming to drain out of him. Imelda looked between the two in sympathy. "Seems you've both been hiding something from each other," she said softly. Gently she pushed Héctor forward. "You can tell him, _mi amor_."

"Not all of it," Héctor said, his voice a lot weaker than it had been as his gaze rose to meet Miguel's. There was a great deal of guilt in his expression, and it made Miguel feel sick. "We... d-didn't want you to worry, _mijo_."

Miguel pressed his hands between his knees anxiously. "Worry about... what?"

Slowly Héctor raised his right hand—or rather, the contraption attached to his wrist—and turned his arm a certain way. The contraption—a prosthetic hand, Miguel finally realized—clenched in response. Héctor moved his arm again, and the prosthetic hand un-clenched. Miguel stared at it in wonder before a terrible thought crossed his mind.

"P-Papá Héctor? What happened to your _real_ hand?"

Héctor drew in a breath, gripping his wrist, but making no effort to hide his prosthetic hand this time. He stared down at the floor, almost looking like he was going to just... go blank again. "It's... it's gone," he finally answered. "I don't have it anymore."

"What—?!" Miguel jumped up from the bed, looking up at Héctor in alarm. "Why?!"

Again Héctor didn't answer, and started to tremble again, and Miguel's stomach wrenched in worry.

But Imelda stepped forward, again placing a hand on Héctor's back, though this time she faced Miguel. "First, you should know that we are _safe_ now," she said firmly. "None of us are in danger."

If that was supposed to make him feel better, it had failed miserably. Miguel's legs shook, and he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed again. "Then... you _were_ in danger?"

Mamá Imelda turned toward Héctor, rubbing his back carefully.

"Ernesto," Héctor blurted out, as though he'd had to force the name through his throat. "H-he took it."

" _What_?!" Miguel's breathing quickened, and he had to fight to push the nightmares he'd had of the man aside. "Can't you get it back?"

"We tried to, _mijo_ ," Imelda answered.

"It's gone f-forever," Héctor stammered, his throat jerking in a phantom gulp. With his attention drawn toward it, Miguel could spot faint scratch marks in the vertebrae, though he wasn’t sure what that meant. "He... t-tried to make sure I never played music again."

Something dropped from within Miguel's chest, falling straight through him and beneath the floor, and taking the life of him with it. "You... can't play music...?"

To his surprise, Héctor cracked a wavering—but genuine—smile. "Just because he tried doesn’t mean it _worked_."

With practiced precision, he loosened the straps on his prosthetic hand to remove it. He then reached into his pouch, swapping out the prosthetic hand for something that looked more like a claw, which he attached to the wrist instead. It looked weird, Miguel thought, like something a cartoon villain might have, but still kinda cool. After producing a guitar pick and placing it in the claw, he then stooped down, picking the skull guitar—or rather, a spirit copy of it—off the floor. He took a moment to feel the guitar in his arms, and drew in a breath, shutting his eyes.

And then he began to play.

It was not the same skilled music he had heard his great-great-grandpa play a year ago, in an old shack in Shantytown, nor was it the beautiful accompaniment he played for Mamá Imelda later that same night. It was Miguel's own tune, Proud Corazon, carefully plucked from the strings.

But there was clearly a struggle to it—Héctor nearly dropped the guitar pick at one point, and he occasionally struck a note wrong. There was also no skillful finger work, since he had no fingers on his right hand to work with.

"It's... not the same," Miguel said softly. And without warning, the emotions bubbled up from within his chest, breaking through him in the form of a sob. He growled, forcing his emotions back down, and lowered his head, gripping it in his hands. "This isn't _fair_!" he choked out. "Wh-why won't he leave us _alone_?!"

"Hey, _hey_." Héctor was suddenly sitting at his side, his good hand—his _only_ hand—hovering just behind his back. "It's okay, _mijo_."

"He's in prison now, and _should_ be for a while," Imelda said lowly, taking a seat at his other side. "So he _is_ leaving us alone now."

"But he's _not_!" Miguel said, kicking his heel at the edge of his bed for emphasis. "He _doesn't_ leave us alone! There's _still_ people who like him, and they think we're a bunch of liars, and even though he's not here, I have _nightmares_ —"

"I know," Héctor murmured. "I know." Careful of clipping, he wrapped his arms around him in an invisible embrace. Somewhere in the back of Miguel's mind, he realized that he could still feel a faint warmth, even from the prosthetic.

"He haunts our dreams too, sometimes," Imelda muttered, crossing her arms.

"W-well... you can hit him with a shoe, at least."

He realized how ridiculous that sounded just before Héctor burst out laughing, pulling away from Miguel and slapping his leg. Imelda only rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "Yes," she admitted. "I _can_ do that, but not hard enough to knock any amount of sense into him."

Though his face burned a little in embarrassment, Miguel tried to grin anyway. "Well if you hit him _that_ hard, you'd probably just break his face."

The comment made Héctor laugh even harder, doubled down over himself and clutching his non-existent sides.

"... _Did_ you get to hit him again?" Miguel asked, suddenly curious. "For real, not in a dream."

Imelda sighed. " _No_ , but I believe your Papá Héctor did."

" _Really_?" He turned to Héctor for confirmation.

" _S-sí_ ," Héctor replied, looking up and grinning. "Hard enough to make his _cabeza_ spin."

For a moment he pictured the face he'd so often seen in his nightmares... and Héctor's fist connecting with it. "...Cool."

"Heh, I guess it _was_ cool." Héctor smiled down at him, only to cringe back with a shudder.

Alarmed, Miguel sat up straighter. "P-Papá Héctor?"

"Ah, it's, um, n-nothing," he replied, wrapping his arms around himself. "Just... remembered something I'd rather not."

"Oh... that... happens to me, too." He went quiet for a moment, staring down at his feet. "My Mamá and Papá told me before that... sometimes, things can make us remember bad things."

"Was that what was happening to you earlier, Miguel?" Imelda asked, leaning closer. "When you ran away from Héctor?"

"Sorta." He gripped the edge of the bed uncomfortably. "I was just being dumb, and was scared of going back and seeing de la Cruz again."

Héctor breathed out a laugh. "At least you didn't jump out a window when you were scared."

Miguel gave him a look. "Did _you_ do that?"

"Eeehhhh..."

"He did," Imelda confirmed, rubbing her forehead. " _Don't_ follow his example."

"Uhh... point taken." Miguel shrugged awkwardly. He felt a little better, though, knowing Héctor knew how he felt, but... "...Papá Héctor," he said, and waited until Héctor leaned closer. "Does it ever happen, when... something happens, and reminds you of a bad thing... and... suddenly it's like... you're _there_? Again? Even when you're not?" He gestured helplessly. "Like... you're there, and you can _feel_ it... even though you're not..."

" _Sí_ , _mijo,_ " Héctor said gently. Miguel was afraid to look at his face to read his expression. "That… has happened to me."

Swallowing, Miguel found his throat suddenly tight again. He pulled his feet up onto the bed, leaned his head on his knees, and wrapped his arms around his legs. His voice cracked again as he spoke: "I wish it would stop."

In spite of what his parents had said, he still couldn't help but feel dumb for still being so scared, after all this time—for still panicking about someone who wasn't _there_ anymore. For being afraid of someone who couldn't hurt him. And he couldn't even _talk_ to anyone about it—he couldn't tell his parents, his living family. How would they ever understand? But... why would they even _need_ to? Why couldn't he just get over it?

But slowly he was aware of a faint warmth in the air, despite the fact that it was November. Lifting his head a little, he found an orange glow surrounding him, and was momentarily afraid that he was being transported by petals again, as he had a year ago. But raising his head further, he realized... no, it wasn't marigold petals.

It was Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor, cocooning him in a soft, protective embrace.

Part of him wanted to protest—tell them that he was fine, that they didn't need to worry like this. But that thought was soon quenched by the realization that, unlike his parents... _they_ understood. _They_ knew exactly what he had gone through, and exactly what his nightmares were about.

They knew that sometimes... he really _wasn't_ fine, and they knew why.

"Does it... ever stop?" Miguel found himself asking, already dreading the answer.

"I don't know," came Héctor's reply, confirming Miguel’s fears. He spoke softly, though his voice had a rough quality to it again. "But... whenever it _does_ get bad _..._ go ahead and tell us."

Imelda nodded at his other side. "We won't always be here, but we'll help however we can."

" _G-gracias_." Finally uncurling himself, he felt warmth around him spreading into his chest. Even just knowing that someone _else_ knew... it made him feel less alone. But... he turned to Héctor. "...Will you tell me, too, Papá Héctor?"

Héctor leaned back in surprise, but was clearly touched by the gesture. "Of course, _mijo_."

Swallowing again, he reached out, imagining he could hold each of their hands. Really he could only hold his hands near theirs, pretending to feel the solid bone beneath his fingertips. While he couldn't feel that, he _could_ feel the warmth of their presence, and that would have to be enough for a long, long time.

The moment was broken by his mamá's voice calling from inside the house: "Miguel? Did you go to bed already?"

"Oh—no, sorry, Mamá!" Finally Miguel slid off the bed, rubbing at his face. "I was just... uh..." He glanced back at his skeletal grandparents, who nodded to him. "Taking a break."

He could hear his mother's footfalls coming closer to his room, as well as the cooing of his little sister. "Come back out here soon! My papá was asking if you would play another song."

"Coming! I'll be out in a minute!" He reached down to pick up his hat.

"Out into the fray, eh?" Héctor said, standing up off the bed. “Here—“ He stooped down to pick up the guitar, only to blink when he found the spirit copy in his hand again. "Oh."

Miguel laughed, picking up the guitar on his own. "I got it, don't worry."

"Are you going to be all right, Miguel?" Imelda asked. "They shouldn't make you play more music if you're not feeling well."

"No, I..." Miguel looked up at his great-great-grandmother, then turned to meet the gaze of his great-great-grandfather. "I... I'll be fine," he said, and meant it.

Then, noticing the spirit copy of the guitar still in his Papá Héctor's hands, he gave a mischievous grin. "I'll play them more music... but only if _you_ can keep up with me!"

Héctor seemed surprised, but smiled all the same. "Can't pass up a challenge like that." He clicked the two ends of his prosthetic claw together before slipping a guitar pick back into its grip. "Let's see if _you_ can keep up with me!"

"You're on!"

Feeling his spirits lifting, Miguel hurried out of the house, his great-great-grandparents just behind. When he saw the _other_ spirits around the courtyard, he paused, his stomach momentarily jumping in terror.

But he felt a warmth on his shoulder, and he didn't need to look back.

His fear wouldn't go away entirely, but it no longer held him back as he lifted his guitar, and began to play.


End file.
